


Ineptitude

by heelnev



Series: Neville vs. the Holidays [3]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Thanksgiving, nev can't cook, or tie a tie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelnev/pseuds/heelnev
Summary: For someone who claimed to be the King of the Cruiserweights and the best at everything, Neville sure was inept when it came to cooking.





	Ineptitude

**Author's Note:**

> The next part of the Nev vs. the Holidays series!! I know I'm a bit early in posting this one but I really Don't Care, but anyways -- happy early Thanksgiving if you celebrate!!

Much to Neville’s chagrin, it’s a running joke among the members of the 205 Live roster that he is an _abysmal_ chef. All that he needed to do was _mention_ cooking and whoever he was with would grimace, making some kind of remark about how whatever it was he made was probably burnt to a crisp (including cereal, which Neville would not confirm nor deny as somehow being burned).

So naturally, a holiday that’s entirely centered around cooking and eating is one of his least favorites.

“Neville, can you at least _try_ to help me?” Mustafa’s voice came from somewhere else in the kitchen that Neville couldn’t be bothered to place right away, and Neville slowly lifted his head off of the table -- ah, so Mustafa was by the stove -- and shot him a glare.

“Let me think…” Neville pursed his lips, taking a few seconds before continuing, “Nope.” With that, he put his head back down.

“Come on…” Neville could hear footsteps approaching him as well as the sound of the chair next to him scraping against the floor as Mustafa pulled it out and took a seat. “It’s too much for me to do on my own. If you insist on hanging around here, the least you can do is give me a hand.”

“Give me one good reason why I should,” he replied, voice muffled.

“Because I’m asking you to. Can you please look at me?”

Neville had been down this road many times before. He and Mustafa shared a weakness, that being puppy dog eyes. Neville knew that the moment he looked up, Mustafa was going to have that sweet, innocent, pleading look on his face that he always used whenever Neville was being difficult (which was quite often, now that he thought about it).

“I’ll pass. You’re not tricking me again, love,” he said, smirking at the small ‘damn’ that slipped out under Mustafa’s breath.

Mustafa started to drum his fingers on the table, clearly trying to come up with a new strategy. “Can you explain _why_ you don’t want to help?” He finally asked.

“Because I’m a lazy fuck.”

“Besides that. Neville, I’ve known you for a little while now. I know there’s another reason for why you’re acting like this.”

Breathing out slowly through his nose, Neville slowly started to lift his head back up, wary. He made sure that Mustafa didn’t have that damn look on his face -- this one was more concerned than anything else -- before lifting his head up completely, propping it up with his hands. “I don’t see the point in helping out. Not like anything I do will be any good.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Oh, please.” Neville rolled his eyes. “You and I both know that I’m a shitty cook. Hell, _everyone_ knows I can’t cook. It’s all people talk about whenever I bring up food.”

“Since when were you the type of person who actually cared about what other people thought of them? That doesn’t sound like the Neville I know.”

“It’s not like they offend me or anything, but after awhile it just gets annoying. And what’s worse is that I can’t even disagree with them -- I can barely turn on the faucet without worrying that somehow it’ll explode.”

“Well…” Mustafa paused. “It’s true that you’re not the most _skilled_ when it comes to cooking...”

“Moose, I suck. Stop trying to sugarcoat it.”

“You don’t suck! You just… need work, that’s all.” He offered Neville a smile. “Quite a bit of it.”

“You ain’t kidding. I’m totally inept in the kitchen. I’m good everywhere else except for here -- the ring, the _bedroom..._ ” Neville reached over a hand with a small smirk, placing it over Mustafa’s.

“Slow down over there, you.” He replied before snapping his fingers. “Hey, why don’t you let me teach you? I’d like to think I’m a pretty decent chef. I can show you the basics, and then you don’t have to worry about being teased anymore.”

Neville scratched his chin. “That could work. Be prepared for a lot of mess ups, though.”

“Just by dating you I’ve learned that I always need to be on my toes whenever you’re around. I’m prepared for anything at this point. Now, come on.” He made to stand up.

“Wait, hold up,” Neville said, causing Mustafa to stop in his tracks and sit back down. “Is now the best time? I mean, aren’t you worried that I’ll just accidentally poison the food or something?”

“I was thinking that maybe for today you could help me by handing me the things I need. I’ll officially start teaching you tomorrow. Sound fair?”

Neville scooched his chair over until he and Mustafa were as close as they could be, and he rested his head on his shoulder, shutting his eyes. “Hmm, alright, but you’re outta luck if you expect me to help you now.”

“And why is that?”

“Lessons start _tomorrow_ , teach. I get to rest for the rest of today.”

No response. Curiously, Neville opened one eye, spotting that Mustafa’s facial expression had changed to another look that Neville was also quite familiar with — Mustafa was glaring at him, eyes narrow. If the puppy dog eyes didn’t succeed, this look usually followed it.

And it _always_ worked.

“So what’s first?” Neville asked as he suddenly jumped out of his chair, rushing over to the kitchen counter. “Tell me what I gotta do!”

Mustafa smirked, looking smug and content with himself. “Glad to see you’re so willing to help!”

“I sure am…” God, Neville needed to learn to stop being so damn weak around him…

* * *

Yet another thing that could be added to the list of things that Neville wasn’t very skilled at was tying a necktie, as seen by the fact that he had been standing in front of the hallway mirror for close to 15 minutes now, the chances of it being tied properly growing slimmer and slimmer with each passing moment.

“Nevs, you’re still out here?” Mustafa was now standing behind him with his arms crossed, and he rested his chin on Neville’s shoulder, staring at their reflections. “Everyone else is sitting down to eat.”

“First of all, I thought I told you not to call me that when other people can hear,” Neville grumbled, still working on his tie.

“So you can call me a cute nickname, but I can’t call you one back?” Mustafa raised an eyebrow, wearing a small smile and raising his voice a bit. “I getcha, Nevs!”

The sound of Rich chuckling from the dining room caused Neville to fumble the tie, and he glared at Mustafa. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist!” Mustafa gave him a smooch on the cheek. “But for real though, what’s taking so long?”

“You know I’ve never been good at tying ties.”

“Here, let me help you.” Mustafa turned him around and took the tie into his hands.

Neville breathed out a sigh through his nose, watching Mustafa’s hands as they worked. He fidgeted uncomfortably, fiddling with the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Why do I have to dress up, anyways?”

“Because it’s Thanksgiving.”

“But we’re in my own damn house. Shouldn’t I be _relaxing_? I’m clearly not if I have to wear one of these accursed things. Why should I have to dress up nice? Especially since TJP hasn’t.”

Mustafa paused. “Neville, are you seriously looking using _TJP_ of all people as your guide for how to go about life? Come on.”

After another minute, Mustafa pulled back, satisfied with the job he’d done. “There we go. You look great.”

“I always look great.” Neville admired himself in the mirror for a moment. “Now I just look great, but with some added bullshit.”

“Very true.” Mustafa put an arm around his shoulders, beginning to lead him towards the dining room. “Now, let’s go see what everyone thinks of our cooking.”

“You did most of the work though, and for a good reason too. Knowing how bad I am, someone could end up croaking.” Neville narrowed his eyes. “And if someone _does_ end up dying, then they’re becoming part of the home decor. I just washed these damn floors and am in _no mood_ to clean them again.”


End file.
